


Barriers

by Foegerfeax



Category: Inhumans (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foegerfeax/pseuds/Foegerfeax
Summary: Medusa and Black Bolt of the Inhumans meet for the first time.





	Barriers

Medusa arrived at the special cell quite by accident, in the midst of a game of hide-and-seek she had been coerced into by her younger sister and cousins. Trying to find a hiding place suitable to one of her skill at the game, she had gone deeper into the underground levels of Attilan’s palace than ever before, turned an unfamiliar corner, snuck silently past the hapless guard on patrol in the hall leading to the narrow stairway she had descended from, and abruptly found herself facing _him_.

She recognized him immediately, of course. She had never seen Black Bolt before, but his features - an aquiline profile bent, brow furrowed, over some text – were strikingly similar to Maximus’. Agon in the jaw, Rynda’s nose. More noble, somehow, than they appeared on his younger brother. No doubt about it; she had unintentionally stumbled upon Attilan’s hidden Prince.

Drawing back slightly down the corridor, she hesitated. Her hair curled around her ankles uncertainly. This was her betrothed, this dark figure behind the glass. The man she would marry – the man she was not supposed to have met yet, for this part of the palace was subject to severely restricted accessibility due to the incredible, destructive nature of his powers. Though the containment chamber was well-designed, it would not be enough to save the city if the Prince unleashed the full power of his voice. The proximity made the atmosphere electric – maybe a quirk of the containment systems, maybe energy coming off his very person, or maybe just a young girl’s imagination overreacting to the thrilling possibility of danger. Nonetheless, a shiver ran down her spine.

At the desk, Black Bolt abruptly sat up, pushing the book away, and his shoulders heaved in a heavy sigh – the universal sign of study-weary students, apparently ubiquitous whether or not they had been raised in isolation in a special chamber.

If the familiarity of the gesture alleviated some of Medusa’s intimidation, his next motion gave her no choice but to approach or scurry away in ashamed fear. As though suddenly aware of her presence, his eyes, painfully bright, painfully blue, trained on her and he stiffened perceptibly, stood. The tight energy in his limbs was palpable, but more nervous than aggressive.

After a second of frozen hesitation, Medusa swallowed her anxiety and stepped out of the shadows. She was no longer a child.

“Hello,” she said softly. “I am Medusa, daughter of Quelin and Ambur.”

For an absurd moment she waited for a response while he stood motionless, before remembering he could not answer and speaking again, voice quick.

“I believe I have the honor of – of addressing his Royal Highness Prince Black Bolt.”

Another uncomfortable heartbeat passed while he looked into her eyes, and she had time to worry that the flutter in her voice had offended him. She had nearly cited the honor of _speaking_ with him.

But then he inclined his head slightly in a mute greeting. Medusa opened her mouth again – unsure of what she was going to say but unable to abide the awkward silence – but Black Bolt held up one finger, asking her to wait. Her mouth snapped shut.

It looked like he was thinking hard. Then, jerkily at first but with growing certainty, he encircled his hands around the top of his head like a crown, and made a dismissive, flicking gesture to dissolve the signal.

Medusa blinked. “Just Black Bolt, then.”

He smiled, a little uncertain smile that held none of the trace of cruelty Maximus displayed on the same lips, and Medusa couldn’t help smiling back.

Black Bolt made a slicing motion across the palm of his hand and pointed at her, palm upward.

“Ah – because we are family. Yes. Of course. No need for such formalities among family.”

He gave a tiny bow in affirmation of her interpretation of the signal. Then he interlocked his index fingers on each hand, fixing her with a serious look.

Medusa hesitated. “…and because we are betrothed.”

Unexpectedly, Black Bolt bent his head down and his mouth spread in a wide smile, one hand flying up to cover it: an obvious symbol of laughter where the sound itself, usually sweet in its uncontrollable intensity, had been trained to automatic suppression. He shook his head at her vehemently, more entertained than offended by her mistaken reading. Face again grown serious with concentration, he came up with a new signal after a few seconds: clasped hands and a soft smile, but was she mistaken, or was there a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes?

“…Because we’re friends?”

A nod.

“Because we’re friends,” she repeated, more firmly. “Yes.” And there was an undeniable warmth in his look - relief, even.

“What are you studying?” Medusa asked, not knowing what else to discuss. She craned her neck to see the text through the glass.

Black Bolt obligingly held it up for her to see: _Annals of Attilan_. One of the cardinal histories of the Inhuman people, and one that – despite its undeniable historical and literary value – was universally derided by young students in Attilan simply by virtue of the fact that it was required reading. Medusa pulled a face in sympathy, earning another wan smile from the cell’s occupant.

He had additional comment to make, however. Briefly flicking the heavy book open, he opened his eyes in exaggerated wideness. It was Medusa’s turn to laugh kindly.

“I actually enjoy it as well. The story of our people is certainly interesting! I would like the _Annals_ better, though, if we weren’t forced to read them over and over again for lessons. What’s your favourite chapter, if you don’t mind my asking?”

A pensive moment passed while he decided on an answer, then another while he figured out how to signal it. At last he steepled his fingers over the spot where ‘Attilan’ was printed on the cover in faded blue ink.

“Oh – the founding of the city. I like that too – but the parts with Randac are my favourites. The first terrigenesis is thrilling.”

A shadow passed across Black Bolt’s brow, and Medusa’s heart skipped a beat. Of course, she chided herself – if anyone had a reason to resent terrigenesis, it was him. It was terrigenesis, and the terrifying abilities it had bestowed upon him, that forced him to remain shut away in this cell deep beneath the earth, frightened of his own power, all alone. At once, Medusa realized he might not have interacted with anyone at all for days. His parents were busy with affairs of state and did not often seem to have time; all of his needs were provided for by automated processes within the cell; her and her cousins, as well as others around his age, were prohibited from entering this part of the palace; and visits from Maximus, though not forbidden, were undoubtedly rare and could not, she imagined, be very pleasant.

“…Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

A slight shift in the tilt of his head signalled polite attentiveness. He seemed almost grateful for any chance that the subject would veer away from terrigenesis and his powers.

Medusa drew a little closer to the barrier between them, and brushed her fingers absently over the glass. To live in complete isolation… She couldn’t imagine. “Do… do you get very lonely in here?”

The darkening of his eyes a split second before he shrugged casually betrayed his underlying lack of the ease he presented. Relenting of the failed deception, he gave a curt nod.

“I’m sorry,” Medusa whispered. She didn’t know what else to say.

Black Bolt shrugged off the apology, as though used to pity and not desiring it. Then he mimed shouting – slowly enough that Medusa did not flinch from terrified surprise - and bore his fist violently down on the opposite palm, grinding it in in a destructive gesture, and knocked the _Annals of Attilan_ off the table. It lay there on the floor of the cell, spine cracked wide, title down. They both stared at it, for once equally mute. The meaning of the motion was clear.

Medusa was the first to move. “I don’t believe that,” she said softly. “You have control. There haven’t been any incidents since shortly after you were born, have there?” There hadn’t. But Black Bolt’s gaze did not look reassured, and he half turned away. There was a darkness there, in his bright eyes, a shadow and gravity to his silent looks that almost frightened her. Medusa pressed on, however, suddenly desperate to make him believe what she herself was sure of even in the face of this peculiar fear.

“I think you’ll make a good and powerful king for the Inhumans. You wouldn’t hurt anyone if they let you out of here – your abilities are clearly under total control. I can tell. I’m not afraid, and you shouldn’t be, either.”

Maybe it was the fierce earnestness of her voice, or just the vote of confidence – or maybe it was the accusation of fear. But Black Bolt faced her again, meeting her eyes – intense gaze hypnotic – impossible to look away – and Medusa stared back, at once taken – helpless - and defiant, and something passed between them that was deeper and more undeniably _important_ than words could ever be.

_I’m not afraid._

And neither of them was afraid.

At last Black Bolt dropped his eyes, inclining his head in a way that showed neither defeat nor deference, but simply gratitude. Medusa felt a new rush of affection for the boy behind the glass. She parted her lips to speak once more – but she didn’t get the chance. A rough voice, high with shock, came from behind her.

“Lady Medusa!?”

She spun around, hair instinctually raising defensively around her. A guard had come around the corner, clearly going to relieve his colleague who had been patrolling the next corridor over when she had arrived. The poor guard looked obviously torn between deference and duty – in fact, it appeared he was struggling with what duty actually dictated in this situation: respect for the royal person, or strict adherence to the all-too-clear rules of access to this particular portion of the city.

Medusa closed her eyes briefly and took pity. “I know I wasn’t supposed to be here, that this area is forbidden to those without authorization. I won’t ask to remain, or even for your discretion. You may escort me back to my parents, or some other figure of authority, for suitable reprimanding.”

Relieved by this unexpected return to certainty of what was expected of him, the guard took her arm gently. “Right this way, my Lady,” he said gruffly. He began to lead her away, the pressure on her arm soft but insistent.

A sharp tap on the glass made Medusa stop. The guard reluctantly did likewise, unwilling to force a member of the royal family.

Medusa turned around. Black Bolt’s arms were moving in emphatic patterns; he touched the back of his wrist, then his chest, then swept his hands upwards beside his face as though trying to brush away insects, all the while fixing her with an imploring look. The signals were quite abstract, and it would have been easy to misinterpret or write them off as meaningless.

But Medusa had already had a few long minutes of experience, enough for practice and to know for certain he was worthy of her trust that there would be meaning in any sign he saw fit to give. She did not hesitate for a moment before replying.

“Don’t worry; I’ll come visit again soon.”

He touched the glass gently in a final somber farewell. Something in the set of his shoulders seemed to indicate desperation, uncertainty in the face of such prolonged isolation - _I’m already waiting for you._

“Don’t worry! I promise I’ll be back before long.” With that, she gave a wide, glowing smile, and walked once more down the corridor away from the cell. The guard trailed after her, an uncertain escort taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of a queen.

And Black Bolt sat down to wait, but he wasn’t afraid.

 

 

It took weeks to convince her parents and Black Bolt’s that she should be allowed to see the prince at all. It took months to reach the point where she was allowed free access, more or less, to the corridor outside his cell, and the guards there grew used to her presence. Yet all this Medusa had achieved, whether through rhetoric or tears or stubbornness and pure iron will. And so, after being released from an afternoon’s particularly gruelling lesson with her tutor, she found herself automatically treading the now-familiar path to the subterranean containment chamber where Black Bolt, Crown Prince of Attilan, spent his solitary days.

The way was monotonous and she allowed her mind to drift over the content of her lesson as she walked, paying little attention to her surroundings. And so it was that she failed to notice the voice drifting from the hall outside Black Bolt’s cell until she turned the corner and found herself looking upon its owner.

She had never before encountered anyone else visiting Black Bolt, even when she came at irregular times. She stopped short, uncertain if she was intruding; and, indeed, not entirely eager to deal with her cousin Maximus after an already tiring day. Conversations with him had a way of making her feel off-kilter, like the ground itself was unsteady under her feet.

Maximus was leaning against the glass, a picture of over-languid familiarity as he spoke to his brother. As Medusa watched his words faded away and he turned, apparently unsurprised, to face her. Like he had sensed, or predicted, her approach. He smiled.

“Welcome, cousin. Come on, don’t be shy. It’s rude to loiter on the edge of a private conversation, you know.”

When she hesitated, one side of his mouth quirked upwards in a twist of a larger smile. He beckoned, and she reluctantly took the last few steps forward to where she could see Black Bolt behind the glass.

He stood upright very close to the barrier separating his cell from the outside corridor and his brother. Months of silent communication had allowed Medusa to read the minutest of his expressions and postures with relative ease. He was tense.

“Medusa.” Maximus’ voice forced her to turn back to him. “We were actually just talking about you. Well, not talking-” he corrected with some glee, “obviously not _talking_. _I_ was talking, and Black Bolt was listening. Mostly. He also wrote a few notes. He must think about you a lot – he seems to have quite a few opinions.”

She forced herself to look dignified and unconcerned, knowing Maximus was likely playing games with them. “About me?”

Black Bolt drew his hand in a sharp angry slash diagonally in front of him: not the increasingly sophisticated visual language of her times alone with him, but a crude sign, intended for Maximus, that anyone might have understood. A frustrated demand to _shut up_ _now_.

In response Maximus’ smile just widened again, sending a shiver running down her spine. “Yes, dear cousin, about you.” He pushed off from the glass and turned his back to his seething brother, facing Medusa. Her hair rose defensively and she crossed her arms, for once glad of Maximus’ sometimes disturbingly delicate features, his starved-looking slightness, his relatively small stature; and for once completely without pity for the quirk of terrigenesis which had left him without powers of his own. She remained silent. He would speak without prompting if he had something to say.

Though she did not miss the way his eyes flicked nervously to the ominous rising of her hair, his smile did not slip. “But don’t let me interfere. Black Bolt, why don’t you confide in Medusa all that you’ve told me? Put it all out in the open. Best that way.”

Behind his brother, Black Bolt’s silhouette in the glass seethed visibly. He swept his hand violently in front of his forehead and clenched it in a fist. A few loose sheets of paper on the desk beside him burst abruptly into white flames. Medusa might have attributed it to a loss of control of his abilities, but he did not react with shock or regret.

“Well, that’s no way to start a betrothal!” Maximus said, grin at odds with the admonishment. “Burning the evidence of things you’ve said about your intended? If you aren’t careful you’ll end up worse than Agon and Rynda!”

Medusa burned with twofold shame. Not only had Black Bolt said things about her – to _Maximus_ – that he wished to conceal; now she also felt like she had stepped inadvertently right into the middle of a domestic conflict that felt utterly inappropriate to observe. Agon and Rynda were her aunt and uncle; they were her _King and Queen!_ Seeing Maximus hint at personal strife between them – not to mention his irreverent address – had the distinct quality of being something she ought not to see.

A tap on the glass drew her out of frenzied reflection. She forced herself to look past Maximus to Black Bolt’s drastically changed face. The anger was gone. Instead there was a pleading look in his eyes as he pointed to the smoldering papers, shaking his head, and then placed his hand lightly over his heart.

_I swear it’s not what you think._

She was saved from having to choose a response – and from having to know how she felt – by Maximus’ next interruption. He smiled in satisfaction, a lopsided, pointy, hungry looking sign of perverse enjoyment. “Well, my dear cousin, I think my work here is done. Do tell me you’ll talk out your issues straight away. I would hate for your royal partnership to go sour before it’s even begun.”

With that, he sauntered away down the corridor, turned the sharp corner, and disappeared.

And Medusa examined her shoes, futilely willing her flush of embarrassment to similarly vanish.

She raised her head at another tap on the glass.

In a flurry of movement, Black Bolt lightly bit the ends of his fingers, pointed at her and shook his head, and then pointed at himself.

“You’re… not worried about me. You’re worried about yourself?”

A nod.

Unexpectedly, Medusa felt tears welling up in her eyes. Whether they were due to relief or disbelief she could not be sure; she had no idea what she felt. “Why?” she whispered.

After a mere second’s hesitation, Black Bolt rushed on with his signing. He opened his mouth, gestured around the cell, encircled his second-to-last finger with the fingers of his other hand, and gave a shrug with a look of such expressive desperation that Medusa’s heart might have broken - all moving so quickly no one else could have followed the meaning of the gestures.

Of course, Medusa did.

“I don’t fear your powers, or doubt your control,” she said, voice trembling with emotion despite herself. “And I don’t doubt that you will be a good husband. I don’t doubt that _at all_.”

Without looking reassured, Black Bolt grimly put his hands atop his head, invoking the distinctive shape of the Inhuman crown, and did not break eye contact.

“Wait and see,” Medusa replied, tears breaking over to run down her cheeks, and placed her hand on the glass barrier that separated them, as though she could project her faith in him through the glass simply through the strength of her emotion. “Wait and see, Blackagar. I firmly believe you’ll prove yourself to be a wonderful king.”

He pressed his hand against hers on the other side of the glass, and for once she wasn’t certain how exactly to interpret the almost-touch; but it felt _right_. If he was not convinced, he was at least thankful to her, and accepting of her faith and support; and he wanted to stop her tears, to provide the same faith and support.

_And love._

The thought broke against Medusa’s mind like clear water and she couldn’t help laughing in perfect happiness through the tears.

She pressed her other hand and her forehead against the glass and he did the same, and they stood there - as close as they could come to an embrace through the barrier that separated them - until the despair and uncertainty of the minutes before felt like nothing more than a transient dream.


End file.
